Highlander
by Namariel
Summary: Scotland, April 1745. With the Battle of Culloden casting a shadow over their heads, Edward and Bella share their last days together. BPOV. One-shot for the Age of Edward contest.
1. Highlander

Thousands of thanks to lovely Babette for doing me the honor of editing this monster. Read her one-shot, it is suuuuper sweet!

I might do the other side of this story, Edward's POV. We'll see.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Age of Edward Contest**

**Title: Highlander**

**Your pen name: Namariel**

**Type of Edward: Braveheartward (Scotland, 1745)**

Night is falling, and the sky is dyed a dying mix of bright orange and angry crimson. Sun rays escape shyly from behind a great white cloud, suspended on the great dome of the sky as if she owns it.

Half our lands lay in its shadow.

Earlier, it rained, as it is most common in Scotland. The remaining clouds now hover in the sky, subdued and calm.

An odd blanket of quietness has befallen the hills, and in it, the smell of clean grass washed away by rainwater is pleasantly sharp and fills my senses.

I find it unsettling.

One of our dogs walks slowly towards me, head bent low and ears sticking to his skull. He is worried, too. He is an old dog; any other man would have put him to sleep a while ago, but Edward refuses. The dog is thin and wiry, and has huge brown eyes that look up at me with uncertainty.

Something is in the air, some kind of charge, as if invisible thunder cracked silently across the sky.

I crouch down and scratch behind his ears, smiling at him. My affection seems to relax him, and he smiles as well, tongue hanging out and lips curling up, eyes bright.

A movement out the corner of my vision catches my attention, and I whirl around, alarmed. These are bad times, and it is best to keep on our toes, eyes wide open and ears perked.

A lone rider comes down the hill towards our gate. In the shadow of the cloud blocking the sky, I cannot tell who it is, but I do know he is a Scot, for I see the movement of his kilt as it billows around him in the wind.

As he abandons the shadow and enters a solitary patch of agonizing sunlight, I see his hair glint in fiery bronze, and I smile.

Edward _Ruadh_ is home. Edward the Red.

The dog's ears perk up and he shoots away running like a bullet, barking enthusiastically. On his way he throws a wayward fierce bite to the aging grey cat, so that it will not think, for a moment, that its last offense has been forgotten. The feline mewls and huffs evilly; they will fight again tonight.

I hear Edward's loud greeting as the dog meets up with the horse, his voice carrying across the smooth undulations of our grounds. He doesn't stop to open the gate, as I knew he would not. His horse jumps easily over it, with a grace and elegance that its size would not hint at. I hear his laughs at the old dog's exuberance, and his loud praise in Gaelic.

Edward has a gift for leadership. Beasts and men alike feel the urge to follow him, to earn his praise and the hearty slap of his congratulating hand.

As he nears me, he slows his pace, but does not come to a full stop. He circles around me on his beautiful black stallion, smirking in the golden light of the sunset, his forest green eyes alive with mirth and joy.

"_Mo duinne_," he calls, "How beautiful ye look in the sunset."

"Only in the sunset?" I arch a brow, inclining my head.

He laughs, "Ye are like fairies! Any other time of the day that I should lay eyes upon ye, ye shall blind me."

I chuckle.

"Come along, then. I should feed you for your praises."

He laughs and trots away towards the stables, the dog in tow. The cat comes to rub its side against my leg, surely seeking to earn my support. I ignore it, raising my skirts and shaking it off. He is on his own; he brought it on himself. Tonight, I will most likely let the dog sleep in, and the cat outside. That way, who's right will be clear.

Tabitha is working on the dinner. I am happy for that, because I simply cannot cook. Edward teases me that I am the most unhelpful housewife to ever be born. I do not cook, I do not sew, I certainly do not knit. But I have natural authority, and people listen to me.

One would think my independent character would collide with Edward's, but we are in love. And in a relationship, both sides will always fold a bit. We have a balance.

I help Tabitha set the table for us, and hold back from my urge to scold her little boy, Sawnie, as he runs around the house exuberantly. He is a boy of only six, and he is alone here, for his father and older brother have both joined the Jacobite Rising.

That thought makes me straighten from my position by the hearth.

The climate of political unrest that has spread like wildfire on a dry crop is convulsing mother Scotland like a girl in the throes of epilepsy. This is certainly not the first Jacobite Rising; in fact, the Jacobites have been rebelling and attempting to restore the House of Stuart to the throne since 1688, when James VII of Scotland and II of England was deposed by Parliament during the Glorious Revolution.

This is, however, the greatest rising since the First Rising in 1715.

Edward is concerned. He is a Cullen, a small branch of the Cameron Clan, and the Camerons thirst for war. They have already sent a letter calling for war, and Edward burned it. He does not want to fight. He wants to be a quiet farmer on his land and be left alone. We want peace and calm, not blood and the clang of swords.

Edward's ancestral land, _Coille an t-Suidhe_, is well situated. It could become an exceptional advance point for the Jacobites, and I fear he will be called on again.

I am strayed from my thoughts by the man himself, bursting through the door like he always does, and making a show of smelling the food. I chuckle and his eyes zero in on me. I give him a warning look, but it does not deter him, and suddenly I am enveloped in his arms, and he is rocking us, as if he could dance—which he can't. It is not one of his many, many talents.

"You brute! Put me down this minute!" I cry, laughing.

"I missed you," he murmurs against my ear, hugging me tightly.

I giggle like a child and hug him back, kissing the side of his neck, for he is so much taller than me that I must tiptoe to reach his shoulder. I like it when he leans forward like this.

"_Mo duinne_," he breathes against my ear, crushing me to his chest. "_Mo nighean donn,__ gráím thú_."

"_A chara_," I say gently, taken aback by his intensity. "What's wrong, my love?"

Edward sighs, squeezes me one last time and finally releases me, kissing my forehead.

"Let us eat, _mo duinne_." he says, leading me to the table by the hand. I sit and he sits in front of me, and we eat in silence. Tabitha has left with Sawnie for the day. They live not far from us, and so I am comfortable leaving them to walk alone at night. Edward sometimes offers to walk them, but tonight he didn't, and I am worried.

When we are finished, I clear the table and Edward opens a bottle of whiskey, pouring us each a drink. I stall with mine; I am not a good drinker, and he knows it. He swallows it quickly and pours another one. I watch him, patient.

"So, I hear ye got a visit from Duncan tonight, eh?" he asks, smiling and finally looking up.

"Oh, aye. He left a letter for you."

I get up to get it from the dresser. Edward's accent is stronger and deeper than mine; I am from the Lowlands, and he is a Highlander. I love his rich, deep voice as it carries it. It delivers the words with a special ring that makes me warm.

"I saw Carlisle today," he says as I look for the letter.

I freeze.

"What did he want?"

Edward chuckles, "You liked Carlisle, _a chara_, until a little while ago."

Until he declared himself Jacobite, he means.

"Yes, well, your uncle has a big mouth. And as they say, _Is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta_."

Which means, 'an open mouth often catches a closed fist'.

Edward laughs out loud.

"He says, congratulations." He says, eyes bright with pride and happiness, and I smile, because when he looks at me like that, what else can I do? I nod in approval, and return to looking for the lost letter.

I cannot have lost it. I know I left it here this noon. I wonder if Sawnie has perhaps—

"He also says, I am to join the Cameron of Lochiel's Regiment, part of Lord George Murray's Division."

I freeze. My blood runs cold and the world suddenly comes to a screeching halt, and my fears crash around me like shards of stained glass falling off the windows of a Church.

"No."

"Bella," he sighed.

"No! Edward, this is insane—they will annihilate the Clans!"

"Prince Charles is in Scotland."

My hand flies to my mouth, and I sit down abruptly.

"He's leading the Rising himself… there is going to be a battle in _Blàr Chùil Lodair_. I am to join the Camerons in Lochiel with my men, and travel to the field from there."

"You can't go," I murmur.

Edward rises from his chair and kneels in front of me, grasping my hands gently.

"I must, my love."

"No—"

"Bella, they will never leave us alone. There will never be peace. The English—they will never leave us—"

"What will it change if Charles is in the throne!?" I demand, standing and moving away from him. He stands as well, forcing his long hands through his bronze hair.

"He is the King," He insists for the hundredth time, and like any time before, it means nothing at all to me.

"Being oppressed by an English King—being oppressed by a Scottish King—I don't see the improvement!"

"Bella! Charles is the legitimate King of Scotland!"

"Would he die for _you_!?"

"If I don't do this, they'll come to _Coille an t-Suidhe_ and get me. If not the Scots, then the _Sassenachs_. Don't you see, _mo duinne_? There is no way out of this."

He tries to be rational and calm and I see the irony in it. It is usually me holding him back, telling him to calm down. He has fire within, untamed and wild. Like a creature of the forests and the mountains he moves by instinct and thinks with his heart. Like a Scot, he is undomesticated; a savage mountain lion lounging in a meadow, he appears calm until he pounces.

"My love, this must end."

"And so you must die for it to come to an end?"

"I must do what my duty, my motherland and my blood demand of me."

"And do I mean nothing to you?"

"Bella!" he crosses the room in two strides and cradles my head in his hands, his face inches from mine. "You mean _everything_ to me. _Everything_. You are my life. _Tá mo chroí istigh ionat. Ádhraím thú._" 'My hearts is with you', he says. 'I adore you'.

"But what life can I offer you, _mo nighean donn_? A life under the _Sassenachs_? A life lived on our knees? A life in which we cannot proudly be Scottish, we cannot speak Gaelic, we cannot rule ourselves? What life is that, my beautiful love, but the life of a slave? And the life of a slave… is no life at all."

"You and your pride," I cry.

He shakes his head, snaking his arm around my waist and bringing me flush against his body. He sways gently from side to side, dancing to the rhythm of music in his mind. He misses his violin, which Sawnie broke two months ago in an accident.

"It's not pride, _a chara_. It's love."

I snort, "You're a Highlander. It's always pride."

He chuckles, "And you, Lowlander, you always shy away of combat."

I could reply, but his mouth is on mine a second later, his lips slanting over mine. I snake my arms around his slim waist, feeling him. He is all coiled power and tense muscles, graceful seduction in elegant lines. I can feel his hard muscles under his shirt, I can smell his scent of sandalwood and leather and the steel of his broadsword, and sweat and man and _Edward_.

I slide my hands over his hips and find the buckle of his belt.

The next morning, when I wake, he is already dressing. I sit up, understanding.

"I have to gather the men and have them ready to travel in a week." He says, throwing the rest of his tartan over his shoulder and gathering his fiery bronze hair in a ponytail low at the nape of his neck.

"This is so unfair."

He pauses, his tall figure a dark silhouette against the light streaming from the window. He leans his head back and sighs.

"War is never anything but, _mo nighean donn_."

And he leaves.

I feel his loss as though he has left forever. I want to curl in bed and weep for both of us. And not only us, for we are not the only ones who are tangled in this web of pointless sacrifice and luckless loyalty. The Highlanders are taught to love their land and fight for their beliefs. It is our duty and our destiny to fight for mother Scotland. If I were a man, I would not hesitate to follow Edward into battle—but I am not, and women cannot go to war.

_Blàr Chùil Lodair_. Culloden, for the English, the _Sassenachs_.

I navigate through the chores of the day like a ghost. I do not feel hunger at noon; Tabitha worries. I feel numb like ice and ethreal like fog. I fear that if I am pushed too hard, I will shatter.

Edward does not return home for tea or dinner. He sends a message letting me know he will dine with the McLachlans. He likes their new son in law, a tall blond born in Wales who says his name is Jasper and his last name is nonexistent. He is quiet and calm, and appears as though he could kill a man without batting a lash. His silence is sharp against his wife's chirpy behaviour. They fit one another.

I wake in the middle of the night as the bed shifts below me, and Edward hugs me tightly, pressing his long body to the length of mine and shivering.

"It's cold outside," he murmurs. "We must take blankets to battle."

I don't answer. He becomes quiet and eventually, we fall asleep.

The next morning when I wake, he has left already.

We are avoiding each other.

It is the last week we may be together, and we cannot _be_ together.

I know I ought to break the circle, but he is away organizing war supplies in hopes of having everything ready by the end of the week, and I cannot tolerate to see him pack swords and weapons. Instead, I do my usual rounds on the tenant's houses, checking to see if everyone is alright.

I see not one man above the age of sixteen. Edward refuses to take boys to battle, and for that at least I am thankful.

I am angry and disappointed, but above it all I am terrified.

Edward has kept an eye on the movements of both Jacobites and _Sassenachs_ and we know the Scots don't stand a chance to win this battle. The Jacobites are emboldened by their victories, and think they have a chance at defeating the Hanoverian British Government. They are supported by the French as well, though little physical help has come from that side. Most of the Jacobite army is embodied by Highlanders and a small portion of Jacobite _Sassenachs_. The Hanoverian army, lead by the King's youngest son, the Duke of Cumberland, is well armed and much more numerous.

Numbers don't win battles, but they sure help.

And what's the Highlander's famous fierceness when they cannot reach their enemy for a sword-fight, because they are shot down at a distance? The Jacobites are ill-prepared.

But their pride—always their pride—makes it impossible for them to remain calm under the realdership of an undesired King. The English have taken far too many liberties already.

And where does that leave my husband?

My husband, son of Elizabeth Cameron, married to Edward Cullen. Nephew of Carlisle Cameron, head of the Cameron Clan. I am a Lowlander, and as such my names holds little value—in fact, it is British in ascension. Edward could have been a great leader of the Clan, but he married an English-blooded woman, and thus became unsuited.

And where does that leave _me_?

Life on one's knees might be the life of a slave, but life without Edward is no life at all, for me.

The afternoon of the second day, as night falls over , I stand in our meadow, a small patch of clean grass in the forests, nestled between a wall of rocks and a small stream, and I think. I am trained in sword-fight, for Edward likes teaching, and I am skillful and small. I can treat a wound. I can speak English with a perfectly feigned British accent.

Yes.

Yes, I could go. I could join him in the battle and help care for the wounded. I might not be with him all the time, but I would be close, I would be _there_, with him.

Yes, I decide. I will go to _Blàr Chùil Lodair_.

Edward does not return tonight, either. I try to wait up, but the day's stress and pain have made me weary, and I fall asleep too soon for my liking. I do not wake when he slips into bed, but I do when he gets up before dawn.

We move like spirits in different astral planes. We see and feel each other, but we do not connect, as though we are separated by a thick membrane between our worlds. His touch on my skin is rough, and I feel his desperation. I offer what comfort I am capable of, but it doesn't soothe him. He is breaking inside, as I am.

He leaves after breakfast to gather more men. Today he will ride farther, and he will not come home to sleep. The empty bed terrifies me and I sleep curled in the rocking chair by the window. I wake late in the morning, sore and lonely.

He doesn't come home during the day either, and time slips away from me reluctantly. The clock over our fireplace doesn't want to tick. Every second I am closer to splintering. The pain in my chest consumes me, and I wonder if this is how it will be, when…

He comes home for tea.

"I am going with you." I say firmly.

He chokes on his toast.

"What? Have ye lost yer mind!?"

"You can't expect me to stay behind while you go off to die!"

"I certainly _can_!" he thunders, standing abruptly.

He looms over me but I am not scared. He would never hurt me; not physically at least, as he seems quite willing to hurt me by abandoning me.

"You are not coming with me to _Blàr Chùil Lodair_, Isabella!"

I can tell he is agitated because his accent deepens and his eyes grow narrow. He has been thinking I would request this. And he has already made up his mind to deny me.

"You are my husband! I go where you go!"

"Aye, I am your husband—so you do as I tell you! You stay _here_, Isabella!"

"This is ridiculous. This is because I am a _woman_!"

"Yes! Of course! A battlefield is no place for a lass!"

"But is the place for seventeen year old boys who have done nothing but crop the fields! It is the place for you, who do not wish to be there!"

"This is my duty and my destiny, Bella. I owe this to my nation, to my family—"

"Your family that never lifted a finger for your father when he was unrightfully called a thief and hanged!"

He straightens, livid.

"Those are the Camerons you are going to follow to your death?" I say, my voice low and cold.

He remains silent.

"I want to go," I say. "Because I can't live without you." My voice breaks at the last word and I take my hands to my throat because the pain there is asphyxiating me. My throat is closed and I cannot breathe.

"Bella," he stands in front of me, his eyes pleading. "I can't take you with me, _mo duinne_. I won't be able to fight, thinking you are there, thinking you are in danger and I am not by your side to defend you. When you are with me, I can't think of anything but you. I would lose my mind, and I need to lead my men. They trust in me, Bella, they trust I will lead them well."

"You can't ask me to stay behind and let you go!" I cry against his shirt. He hugs me and crushes me to his chest, murmuring soothing words in Gaelic and running his hands through my hair.

"I have to, _mo ghrá_. You have to live. I cannot fathom a world in which you do not exist. You.. you have to be alive, Bella."

His voice breaks in my name, and he hugs me to him as a man hugs a piece of wood as he is adrift alone at sea. His tears wet my hair and mine his shirt. I clutch him to me for dear life, and the world smashes around us like the finest crystal.

Without one another, we are nothing.

He is my life, the air I breathe, my sunlight in the morning and the moon shining at night. The stars and the sea, and everything between them.

"_Mo ghrá_," I cry, kissing his full lips in between out tears, "_Ádhraím thú." _

"_Mo duinne_," he sobs, falling back on the bed and holding me tightly in his lap as his body is shaken with broken sobs.

I am scared, but mostly I am broken. To see a man cry is always heartbreaking, but to see _my Edward_ cry, my rock in the storm crumble, destroys me. I stroke his hair back and rock him back and forth. I am the comforter now, I am the strong one. This is the beautiful thing of a man… this capability to be simultaneously man and child, to go from being a warrior to a boy scared of war.

And he _is_ scared. He is terrified; he doesn't want to die, nor does he revel in his chance to prove his worth, his valor. Edward is peaceful by nature, tranquil. He will always choose a book over a broadsword.

We don't make love that night. Edward curls in bed and I curl around him, the protector for once, and I sing him an old lullaby to sleep.

Roses whisper "goodnight"

'neath the sil'vry light

asleep on the dew

they hide from our view

when the dawn peepeth through

God will wake them and you

when the dawn peepeth through

God will wake them and you

Slumber deeply my dear

For the angels are near

to watch over you

the silent night through

and to bear you above

to the dreamland of love

and to bear you above

to the dreamland of love

The next morning, I realize this is the last day we will spend together. Edward is still asleep, and this is the first time I awake before he does. He was exhausted last night, and I slip out of bed making sure not to wake him.

I dress in silence and leave the house wrapped up in his long winter cape. I know it drags across the wet grass, but wearing it makes me feel closer to him, as though he were here and it was his arms around my shoulders instead of the thick cloth. His scent permeated the cape; forests and rain. _Edward_.

There is one thing to be said of the Cameron Clan, and it is that they are stubborn. Edward might not have their name, but he does certainly have their blood.

I stood in our meadow again, soaking in the silence of the solitude. Here, alone, I could think clearly.

_The promise of my blood_, he had said that night, stroking my stomach. My hands now cupped my slightly curved abdomen, thoughtfully.

Scotland the Brave was at the cliff's end. Beneath it the void was endless.

I knew what was coming.

The Jacobites would be defeated. In this last ill-prepared attempt at overthrowing the Hanoverians, all Scots would pay for their foolishness. Taxes would rise; oppression would asphyxiate us. The guards would double in numbers and cruelty. The Highlanders would be crushed underfoot, their traditions stolen and thrown away, forbidden, left to be forgotten.

But Scotland would never die. Scotland was within us, in our spirits… in the edge of the blades of broadswords and the points of arrows and lances. Nothing could break our spirit, nothing could bring a Highlander to his knees.

We could be drowned in ashes and fire, but so long as a small little plant survived, our spirit would survive within it.

So long as Scotland had a child, she would live on.

She lived in me, now… that small flicker of hope and future.

_I cannot fathom a world in which you do not exist. _

Neither can I, _mo ghrá_, without you.

But with the possibility of a world without Edward, that of a world of no colors and devoid of happiness, and one I do not wish to survive in, I no longer belong to myself. I belong to the life growing within me and to this life's future and destiny. I owe this life a chance to live, and so I cannot sacrifice myself for Scotland… I am no longer free to do that.

This is Edward's child. His boy. His girl. His promise.

I belong to him, too. And like him, I have a duty to honor my commitments.

Women and men are strong in different ways.

It's my time to be strong in a way dissimilar to Edward's.

I cannot fight by his side.

But gone the moon… still the stars will shine. Not as bright, not as beautiful… but shine nonetheless.

My decision is taken, but as the meaning of it crashes over me on the teardrops of the rain, I fold in on myself and fall to my knees, sobbing. No need to keep quiet here, and for a moment, I allow the sorrow and the pain and the loss to come to overtake me.

The agony makes it impossible to breathe. I heave and try to fill my lungs, but I am unable. Strangled noises leave my throat and drop to the wet grass of the meadow. In this place, where it all begun between us, I draw it to an end. I must set him free, and let him follow his spirit, wherever it may take him.

And as Highlander spirits go… it takes him to battle.

When I finally pull myself together and return to the house, he is waiting by the fireplace.

"Bella, you're soaked," he gasps, grasping my hand and tugging me closer to the hearth, where he begins undressing me.

"No preparations today?" I murmur.

He shakes his head, concentrating on undoing my buttons, "We are as ready as we will ever be. We could have left yesterday… but I wanted everyone to have a day with their families."

I wrap my arms around his neck and he leans down to hug me tightly. He has stripped me down to my petticoats and camisole, and I am cold despite the hearth's lively fire. I feel the hard planes and sharp angles of his male frame against my soft flesh, and I feel him sigh.

"How will I live without you?" I sigh against his ear, my tears all spent.

"One day at a time, head held high and eyes in the future," he answers, his voice muffled against my hair.

"You'll have it easy," I cry.

He chuckles breathlessly, "To see you from afar, as an angel, and not be able to touch? No, _mo nighean doon_, it will be torture."

I kiss his lips and he leans forward and takes me in his arms, cradling me against his broad chest. I kiss his neck, gentle and soft, and feel him shudder. He sets me softly down on the bed and lays at my side, kissing me deeply and sensually, his lips and tongue slow against mine.

I find the threads at the collar of his shirt and untie them slipping my hand between the linen and the skin of his shoulder and dragging it down between his shoulder-blades. He has such a strong, beautiful back.

He is a beautiful man indeed. Skin roughened by work, life and many seasons under the sky stretched over steely muscles flat against long, elegant bones. He is almost feline in his movements, granted with a liquid grace uncommon in men his height.

I find the leather strap at the base of his neck and yank it, untying it. His bronze hair tumbles in soft curls around his face, and his hand finds the back of my neck and pulls me closer to his face as I run my fingers through it, scratching his scalp with my blunt fingernails.

He shifts and his thigh finds its way between mine, his weight falling on half of my body. I love the feel of his body against mine, his weight, and the length of him pressed against my stomach. At first, when I first told him I was with child, he was careful of touching me, fearsome that I would break.

He is over that now.

"_A ghrá_," he murmurs against my ear, and I un-tuck the shirt from the waist of his kilt and drag it up across the hard planes of his stomach and sides. He lifts off me a moment to pull it over his head, and when he lies against me again, he smoothes down the hair off the sides of my face, looking down at me with such love and devotion in his eyes, that I cannot tolerate it.

I push at his shoulders, and a flash of confusion shines in his jade eyes.

"Stand," I ask.

He moves to grant my request as though his body can do nothing but. He stands at the foot of the bed, and I stand in front of him. I ghost my fingertips over his tight abs, and his muscles shudder beneath my touch. I want to be the one to worship him, for a change. So much has happened to us, and through it all he was a rock, grounding me and protecting me.

I sink my fingers in his silken hair and bring his head down to mine, kissing him deeply. His hands grip my hips, and I can feel his erection through the layers of my wet petticoats and his kilt.

I break the kiss and caress his sharp jaw line to the side of his neck, licking that little spot under his ear that makes him shudder. I am so attuned to his body, to what pleases him that I move instinctually. I know scratching his scalp makes him purr, and that caressing the trail of hair under his navel causes twitches and breathless laughs.

He loves it when I lick the small hollow between his long collarbones and nip at the skin above them. He has sensitive nipples; not all men do, but he does. I brush my lips over his right nipple gently and hear him gasp. Scratching my nails over his taught abdomen, I slip under his arm and run my hands down his long spine.

My fingers are cold against his skin and he shivers as I trail the back of them up his spine to the back of his neck. He leans his head forward, allowing me access. I kiss the smooth elevation over his first vertebrae and spread my fingers over his shoulder-blades, licking the small white line of an old scar close to his left shoulder.

He earned that saving me.

I search for the other small scars and kiss them all, thanking him silently for all he's ever done for me, for loving me, for fighting. For existing.

Edward makes a strangled noise low in his throat and reaches back, catching my hand and pulling in front of him.

"_A ghrá_, my Bella, I love you so much," he says, kissing me and clutching me to him.

I push against his hips, turning him so he'll sit on the edge of the bed. I stand between his spread knees, stroking back his hair. He sighs and rests his forehead in the valley between my breasts. His fingers gather the cloth of my wet petticoat on my hips, and I pull back to let him pull it over my head. He kissed the swell of my right breast above my heart and lays his ear there, listening.

It beats faster now.

"_Tha mi duilich_." He whispers. 'I'm sorry.'

"You are forgiven," I say, and set him free.

"_Ádhraím thú_," he whispers. 'I adore you'.

"_Gráím thú_," I reply. 'I love you".

I kneel down between his legs and begin untying his shoes. He protests, saying he doesn't want me to serve him, but he has done so _much_ for me. When he holds my hand, I kiss his wrist and move it away.

I remove his shoes and the cloth around his calves and gently massage the strong muscles below the back of his knees. He groans in pleasure and leans back on his hands, allowing his head to roll back. I massage my way up, kissing his right knee before gently allowing my hands to wander below the tartan of his kilt.

I feel the strong, long muscles at the tops of his thighs and hear his intake of breath as I grow closer to where they connect to his torso. I smile and ghost a caress back down to his knees, leaving him untouched.

He groans, but I have no intention of teasing him.

I touch the line of an old scar over the right side of his chest, above the ribs. He laughs, tickled as I knew he would be, and catches my hand. He sits up to kiss me, and my hands find the buckle of his kilt belt. I fumble with it—I always have trouble with the damn thing.

He laughs, as he always does, and guides my trembling fingers with his sure ones. I undo the belt and gently move the cloth away, bearing him completely. I smile at him and take his length in my hand, kissing the head. He hisses, but grips my wrist.

"No," he says quietly, "I need you, please."

I nod, feeling the same need to be connected to him, to become one. I get up and he slips his arm around my waist and rolls me to my back on the bed, hovering above me and settling between my legs. He kisses me deeply, his lips heated and hungry, and I scratch his back with my nails, surely leaving marks. He moans loudly. I drag my fingers from his shoulders down to the swell of his buttocks, following the sensual curve of the low of his back.

"I love you," he breathes before he moves and in one long stroke, he fills me. I moan and grasp his shoulders. He holds steady for a moment, savoring the feeling and pushing his forehead against my temple. He lowers his body so that every inch of our skin is in contact, and he moved slowly, rhythmically. I feel every inch of him sliding within me, stretching me, caressing me.

He slips his right arm below my back and keeps me impossibly close, almost too close to move, but he manages. He breathes against my lips when he's not kissing me, and his left hand travels up and down my side, gripping my hip, caressing my breast.

I want to remember this. I want to never forget the way our bodies slide and fit perfectly together, the way his hard planes mold to my soft curves like water molds to a vase. I want to be able to close my eyes and remember, the residue of a memory, the ghost of a touch on my skin. The feel of his breath in my ear and his whisper of my name.

Something to remember when he is gone.

All I can hear are our pants and breaths and our thundering heartbeats. We move slowly, gently, making love. He pressed his forehead to my neck, tucking it below my chin, struggling to breathe through our motions and our feelings.

His climax overcomes him, gentle and gradual, a slope instead of a brusque fall. He shudders in the wave, faltering in his movements and releasing a long moan.

I don't reach my peak, but I don't mind.

Like a child, he curls and rests his head in my chest, listening to my heartbeat and my breaths and enjoying the rising and falling. I stroke his hair, undoing the tangles and small snarls. I find a leaf and a small little piece of wood, and carefully pick them out.

He falls asleep like that, hugging me and making it impossible for me to move.

I lay awake a few more minutes, but eventually drift asleep as well.

He wakes me sometime in the night and we make love; this time, he makes sure I reach my peak long before he reaches his. He presses my back to his chest and hums an old lullaby, trying to follow the raising and dropping of the bagpipe's sorrowful cry with his deep smooth voice.

He sings me to sleep, and he wakes me again at some point of the night, and this time, we are both desperate. Time is running out; with every second closer to the dawn, we are closer to being apart.

It's not an act of love, this last time. He is breaking inside and needs the connection to me to ground him, to settle his soul. I know because I feel the same. We are drowning and cling to each other desperately. He is rough and fast, and bruises my left wrist. He apologizes, but I like it. It is yet another reminder that he exists, that he is here with me this moment.

We tell each other we love one another over and over, in English and Gaelic, in words and in motions.

I wake next early in the morning.

In an empty bed.

I sit up, holding the covers to my body. The room is warm, but the fire in the hearth is out. The embers are still glowing.

He left the fire blazing for me.

Silence rings in my ears. I don't know if it is outside my head or all around me. It doesn't matter.

I get up and dress. Make my breakfast and eat.

The next few days are a blur. I am not aware of anything around me. Time passes like water in a creek, silent.

There is no news from the battle of the survivors—or the losses.

Two days after the battle of _Blàr Chùil Lodair_, Cumberland's order of 'no quarter' is obeyed and the Moor is searched. All wounded Jacobites are immediately put to death. Indiscrimnate killing begins, with all men bearing arms hang on the spot and their women are raped.

Families flee their scorched hovels and are left to starve to death. Livestock, sheep, and goats are driven off and sold at Fort Augustus, where the soldiers split the profits. Men and boys are murdered without trials.

Even if Edward has survived—something that proves to grow steadily unlikely as the days pass—he will not return here.

He will not endanger us by hiding in _Coille an t-Suidhe_.

Scotland is being decimated, one son at a time.

Edward is gone.

What holds me to this land?

My pride.

But Scotland slowly bleeds out, and I find my pride means nothing to me.

This is Edward's ancestral land. This is where he was born. This is where he lived. This is where our child was conceived.

But he is gone… and Scotland is no longer our Brave. She's not the motherland he loved and cherished, the one he was so proud about.

I wonder, what is a Scot, if not his tartan, his bagpipes, his Gaelic? All that is left is pride—and that I have no more. Why am I still in this place, like a butterfly on amber, stuck in the sorrow of loss?

Farms and lands are being taken away everywhere.

Soon the Sassenachs will know Edward Cullen of _Coille an t-Suidhe_ fought in Culloden—and they will come claim their prize.

I walk to our meadow in the twilight. I want to listen to the creek's soft laugh and the bird's gentle chirp—but as I get there something catches my eye. Orange light shatters against the steel blade of his long knife. It sits there, in the middle of our meadow, where he knew I would come looking for his memory.

I crouch down and pick it up, stroking the smooth cool metal with my fingertips.

_Coille an t-Suidhe_.

They can never have it.

How fitting I should make this decision in this meadow. Here, in this small sacred place, everything began—and everything ends.

I get up and walk to Emmett McCarthy's hovel. He has lost a leg and has a wooden replacement; Edward forbid him to go to war. I know he has asked of him to watch over me, because Emmett has been hovering. He has a sweet soul, but he is about as subtle as any Highlander can ever hope to be.

Not at all.

"The Sassenachs will come," he agrees after I explain my fears. "What will we do?"

"Everyone has a place to go, do they not?"

"Yes," he nods. "Not many are left anyway."

I turn away and look out the window to the rolling hills of emerald green, to the smooth expanse of golden crops.

"Burn it," I say calmly. "Burn it all. And when the last ember has died away, salt the lands. They want a deserted wasteland… I will _give_ them a deserted wasteland."

The next day, I stand in front of my home and the world is a living, breathing mass of orange flames licking the fields and reaching up to the sky. The heat slams against me with the few breezes of reluctant wind. Scotland's weather is lazy today; she does not feel like raining. The fire burns quickly.

By nightfall, the fields are a blackened mass of charred dirt. Nothing had survived—as nothing should.

I am heartbroken. I want to curl up and cry my heart out.

But no one will ever have the Cullen's land, but the Cullen last-name.

This is the Scottish way; to die on your feet, instead of living on your knees.

This is Edward's wish.

I return to my house and cut my hair close to my skull. I change and dress like a boy.

By closed night, I am already on the road towards Edinburgh. It will take me two weeks by horse-ride to get there. In the city I must meet an old friend of Edward's, Jacob, and he will help me cross to France. Once there, I am to return to my old family's house on the Riviera.

If he lives… Edward will meet me there as soon as he can.

I remember our wedding vows.

"Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done."

"You cannot possess me for I belong to myself. But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give. You cannot command me for I am a free person. But I shall serve you in those ways you require. And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand."

I leave Scotland behind in ship, and she blows her wind towards us, in silent approval.

I am sad to leave, but I bide my time. I will return. But I will not live under the _Sassenachs'_ foot. I will not raise a child beneath their soles.

This life growing inside me, this was Scotland's promise.

Edward's promise.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I know, i know, angsty! But hey, that's an open ending. She hasn't seen any bodies, so we don't know if he's dead.

Maybe his POV will enlighten us.

Thanks for reading!

Namariel.


	2. Gaidheal

Eh, this is officially the longest piece of fiction I had written for FFnet, ever. I didn't want to make it this long but well, details demanded it. The battle is an important part of Edward's experience and it had to be told.

I want to thank Babette12 for editing this monster. I went to bed last night ad 3 AM to finish it and when I woke up today at 2 PM, it was done!

Babette, I (heart) you. And both her one-shots, 'Going to Sleep' and 'Taking Liberties' are amazing too, so I suggest you check them out!

This is also dedicated to Stavanger1 because she's an amazing friend and writer, and to Vixen1836 because I honestly would not have written it if she had not encouraged me. In any case, certainly not for the contest.

Okay, enjoy!

Oh by the way 'Gaidheal' means 'Highlander' in Gaelic.

**Age of Edward Contest**

**Title: Gaidheal**

**P****en name: Namariel**

**Type of Edward: Braveheartward (Scotland, 1745)**

In the silent, still night, the bagpipe's sorrowful cry rang clearly across the grounds. I didn't know this melody; I wondered if it was a calm tune to lift the spirits or a quiet goodbye to those that lay dying in in the field.

I thought of the Sassenachs' camp at Balblair.

I tried with all within me but I could not muster the energy to hate them. In truth I was indifferent. I did not care one way or the other, anymore. Like a rock stuck in the bottom of an angry river, madness raged around me and failed to move me.

It simply did not matter.

I wished it did.

Around me born warriors sharpened their broadswords and their daggers. Pistols were cleaned thoroughly and reloaded. These men were ferocious and wild, truly horrifying in the battlefield. They fought for what they believed in with all their hearts and souls.

What did my broadsword kill for?

Why was I there?

"_Ruadh_," Jasper appeared right by my side, tightening his thick winter cape around his shoulders and torso. "I was just with the McKenzies. Their youngest is missing."

I moved my eyes over the wide expanse of crimson stained grass in front of us. "Hayden."

I saw him nod out the corner of my eye.

Hayden—sixteen year old, blonde, blue-eyed Hayden McKenzie.

_Pointless. _

But still—I remained untouched.

I drew a deep breath in, enjoying the biting cold of the air on my lips and tongue. I held it for a moment, and then sighed heavily.

"Will this nightmare never end?"

"I am quite sure it will—tomorrow in fact." He looked away, his eyes scanning over the Highlanders burrowed into the tartans and capes around us. "How many do you think we have killed?"

"Not a third of what _they_ have." I answered directly.

"Perhaps yes, but in comparison, they are unconcerned. Us, on the other hand…"

"Jasper, ye should go." I said calmly. "No one demands ye stay here. Ye aren't a Highlander—ye aren't even Scot."

"Och, aye. I can even grunt like one."

I smiled slightly.

"This is Hell, _a carain_. Flee and I will cover you."

"I like this version of hell better than the Bible's."

I sighed and glared half-heartedly at him, "You speak blasphemy, Jasper."

"Fluently," he agreed, nodding.

I chuckled.

"I simply fail to understand why. You have no duty, nor do your beliefs keep you here."

"On the contrary, Edward. I have a duty to Scotland, she has given me shelter, protection, . s She has given me love, a family. I have worked her lands and bled on her fields. I do have a duty to this land, and it is my belief that when you are offered kindness you shall return it ten-fold. Scotland is my motherland now, and as such I shall defend her."

I nodded, understanding.

"I am not like you, Edward _Ruadh_," he said softly. "My duty and my beliefs coincide."

I looked at him, startled. "My beliefs _are_ my duty."

He sighed, "No, they are not. Your duty is to be here and fight for your land, or so you think, but your belief is that this war will never be won, and that this is a pointless loss of precious lives. You heart is not in this fight. Where _is_ your heart?"

"In _Coille an t-Suidhe_." I deadpanned.

"What's a man without a heart, or the other way around?" he shook his head, "You are like a boy whose elders force to go to Church despite the knowledge that he detests it. You are here in body but your spirit has left you. It is horrible, Edward. You are dead inside."

I did not answer. I was not going to anyway, but just then we were interrupted as Seaneen appeared by my shoulder, his long brown hair tangled and the braids at the sides of his face caked with mud.

We really were a rather sad group, to tell you the truth.

He offered up a pipe and I shook my head; Jasper gladly took it.

"You should not," I said quietly, "it is bad for your health."

Jasper snorted.

"You want to know what's bad for me health?" Seaneen asked, arching his brows. "The English!"

"Yes well, they are generally bad for everyone anywhere. Ask the French." Jasper commented.

"Or the Spaniards," Seaneen replied.

"Where _are_ they liked?" Jasper frowned.

"England," Seaneen and I answered together.

What had begun as a small argument between friends behind us was quickly escalating. I turned and scolded them quickly in Gaelic. Most of them were from _Coille an t-Suidhe_, and they murmured apologies and became immediately quiet.

"Highlanders," Jasper chuckled.

I glared and grunted and he laughed. He insisted the Scots had a wide range of throaty sounds he would never be able to imitate faithfully. Jasper was a great companion in battle; not only was he surprisingly skilled with his short sword, but also he kept my mood up when it came crashing down whenever I actually thought of this pointless battle.

"Come now, _Ruadh_. Let us lie down and get whatever rest we may."

I agreed and stretched out in the dirt, bending my knees and pulling the long winter cape close around me. I had left my sword on the ground earlier; the broadsword was as tall as my shoulder and while I loved it dearly, it was not quite comfortable to carry around, especially since it did not have a scabbard. The _Sassenchs_ with their little kitchen knives cowered easily at the sight of it; I imagine with it in my hands, covered in blood and dirt, my hair wild and my eyes mad with the thirst of battle, I was quite the image.

Bella always laughed, calling me a little animal, because my hair was always tangled and there were twigs and leaves in it; I was almost always covered in dirt, and smelt like leather, sweat and horses.

I sometimes wondered how she could love me so much. I was unbelievably blessed.

When I lay at night like this, alone despite the fact that I was surrounded by hundreds of sleeping Jacobites with Jasper sleeping at my side like a loyal watchdog, I remembered her sharper than ever. In my mind's eye I could picture her laugh, her voice, her honeyed brown eyes, her dark silky hair, her soft white skin.

I sighed and closed my eyes. I envied Jasper; he had fought before, many times in many battles, and he knew how to make his body fall asleep and wake up immediately to his orders. Mine didn't respond to me so willingly; I barely slept, as it was, and tomorrow would be a bad day.

Today had been a bad day as well. Particularly bad indeed.

Ever since the 30th of January, everything had gone downhill. The Duke of Cumberland arrived in Scotland to take command of the government forces after Cope and Hawley failed. He decided to wait out the winter, and moved his troops northwards to Aberdeen. Around then the Hessian troops, commanded by Prince Frederick of Hesse and amounting up to five thousand men, joined the army. The 8th of April, the weather having improved as much as Scot weather may ever improve—which as it is, isn't much at all—Cumberland decided to resume his campaign. The 11th they arrived at the small town of Cullen, where they were united with six battalions and two cavalry regiments, and advanced on towards River Spey. It was guarded by a Jacobite force of two-thousand, made up of the Jacobite cavalry, the Lowland regiments and over half of the army's French regulars.

The Jacobites turned and fled of course, what else could they do against such a force? They headed first towards Elgin and then to Nairn.

They then evacuated Nairn in the 14th, and Cumberland camped his army at Balblair just west of the town.

We were then all stationed in Inverness, but our command quickly evacuated the city, leaving behind most of our supplies. We assembled about 5 miles away, to the east near Drummossie, around 12 miles away from Nairn.

And so here we were, at the eve of the 15th of April, at an impasse.

We were going to be slaughtered—it was just a question of when. We were not only vastly outnumbered, we also lacked ammunition, food, and winter clothes, not to mention we were exhausted. This foolishness was suicide.

"Let it go," Jasper murmured nearby. "Sleep."

I emptied my mind of thoughts and, eventually, managed to fall into a fitful sleep.

I woke disoriented at dawn. Jasper dumped a rock of bread on my stomach and grunted a greeting.

"Well, you sure are beginning to sound Scot, Welsh."

"Eat your bread and be quiet. Something is wrong."

I jumped to my feet, shivering in the cold, and looked around in alarm. The men were oddly quiet. I could hear in the distance the sound of swords being sharpened, a common sound I had come to get used to, and the shuffling of boots in the dirt.

"What has happened? Have the _Sassenachs_ moved?"

Around us the fog was thick; it was impossible to see much farther than a few feet ahead, and in the grey light of the breaking dawn, the landscape was eerily similar to what I pictured the place between Earth and Heaven was, that waiting space where you lay as the Angels decided if you would go Up or Below.

And it was really—Drummossie Moor was its name. A stretch of open moorland enclosed between the walled Culloden enclosures to the North and the walls of Culloden Park to the South.

"No, but the command is gathered in Prince Charles' tent, and I have a bad feeling."

I stared at him, feeling my blood run cold.

"I have to find Carlisle Cameron. Perhaps he knows what they are brewing."

I made to slip past him but he caught my arm, his grip like an iron band.

"Eat first."

I distractedly yanked a piece of the hard bread into my mouth, eyeing the field. I felt troubled and restless. I could understand now the uncharacteristic hush that had spread over the Highlanders. I could feel the tragedy vibrating in the cold, humid air around me, like the remnants of thunder in a storm.

Jasper watched over me like a golden feathered, blue eyed hawk until I finished the bread and swallowed a few mouthfuls of whiskey to warm me and wake up. Once I was finally released from his penetrating gaze, I immediately started looking for Carlisle Cameron, intent on finding out what exactly we were going to do from now on.

It was no easy feat. I knew most of the men camped here and they all had something they absolutely had to tell me—whether it was that they had seen an English soldier nearby or that they had had the most awful dream that night. Business ranged from life-or-death to the most trivial matters, and as any Highlander is friendly by nature, they saw me and automatically wanted to speak with me.

Bella used to play around saying charisma was my curse. I always said hers was her beauty; I spent more time growling at pretenders than courting her during out teenage years. Granted I was a jealous boy—I was a jealous man too—but the amount of men trying to seduce her whenever we went into a town where it was not abundantly clear she was my woman was daunting. A more demure woman would have been flabbergasted—Bella, of course, arched a brow and made a sarcastic comment.

Bella will always be Bella.

I only managed to find Carlisle around mid-morning.

The man had aged years in a few days' time. Silver was threading with the gold in his temples, new lines marked the edges of his long mouth and wide forehead, and there was a new icy grey glint in his clear blue eyes.

"Cullen," he greeted when I finally stopped by his fire. He rose, wiped his hand on his kilt and came over to me, not even attempting to smile. I studied his face intently for a moment and as it dawned on me, I grasped his elbow.

"Ye're sick," I hissed.

He sighed, "Aye—keep quiet. You were looking for me?"

"I've heard you cough. Is it tuberculosis?"

He nodded.

"Damn, man. You ought to leave."

"We all should," he murmured.

I released his arm and ran my hands through my hair, angry and helpless. I stomped down on my irritation—he did not need it right now. He clearly had more problems than I did, and while I might resent him for dragging me and my men here in the beginning, I cared. He was a good, honest man and he meant well.

"What are they deliberating in the tent?"

He waved a hand, "Command affairs I am not allowed to be enlightened about."

I growled and brushed past him. Good man or not, he had a docile, gentle character that I did not favor. He was a leader, but more of the intellectual kind. He lacked the necessary firmness in his demands of answers.

I stormed my way over to the tent and caught sight of Aro McKenzie sitting by the fire nearby, looking absent-minded. I stood by him for a minute before crouching down and snapping him to attention by clearing my throat.

"What news, _a caraid_?"

Aro sighed, "None good, lad."

"Bad news is preferable to no news at all."

"Debatable."

"Easily so—however, I have no time for debates right now."

Aro tilted his head, acquiescing.

"Lord George Murray insists that this moor is not a good battle ground. He, with other senior officers, believe that the rough moorland terrain is unsuitable for a defensive position as it is very advantageous to the Duke, because of the marshes and the uneven ground. They make the charge somewhat difficult and leave us open to the Duke's artillery—a force to be recognized, indeed."

So far, we had been winning battles on account of our wild charges. I had to admit that a mass of dirty, wild, insane-looking Highlanders wielding swords and yelling their throats sore running in your direction like a stampede of wild buffalos—and with just about the same discipline—was quite the image, but against a well organized army led by a strong, level-headed man like Cumberland, we were at a disadvantage. Even then, with an uneven terrain making it likely for the men to fall, although we were quite familiarized with the Scot grounds, the charge would be a bad idea.

Strategically speaking, the Jacobite initiative was poor. I knew Murray had insisted on a 'little war' type campaign, but Prince Charles had refused. The idea would have been a wise decision—take by surprise, act fast and brutal, withdraw immediately after causing as much damage as possible in such a short amount of time.

Prince Charles was a proud man. And when you find yourself in the position he did, you cannot really afford pride. If he wanted to win, then he should have been willing to win by any means. As it was, we were just sitting ducks waiting to run head-on into the wolf's awaiting jaws.

And Cumberland was no forgiving wolf.

While the Duke's artillery had been performing less than admirably so far, I could not count on that to continue so. He was a perfectionist and he had been training his men; surely their skills had improved.

I nodded and stood, walking away.

I often wondered if to Charles Stuart, this war was a game. It was not him shedding blood on the fields, getting cut by swords and shot by muskets and pistols. He merely sat in his tent and gave orders and made decisions—most of them bad ones.

I made my way back to my men, stopping along the way to speak with some of the other clans. The McLachlans were arguing heatedly; I steered away from them because more than once in my younger years I had been dragged into one of their fights and they kicked like mules and bit like crocodiles.

When I finally made it back to my men it was around noon.

As they cooked what little we had to eat, I murmured to Jasper everything Aro had told me.

"Interesting—but if the ground is unsuitable, why have we not moved out?"

"Move where? There are English behind and ahead."

He thought for a moment, and finally nodded.

Jasper and I shared the opinion that disbanding and implementing the 'small war' campaign was the only way this Rising would ever end up in something worthwhile. I wished time and time again Prince Charles would finally change his mind and realize that was the best course of action, but as it often went, prayers of excellence in the command of Highlander war campaigns was futile.

I wished I had been born to meet William Wallace. He might not have been the most disciplined of leaders, but he was a charismatic figure that inspired men to follow him and do whatever they needed to complete his dream—a dream they shared, a dream that ran through their veins like blood, a dream they breathed in with the air into their lungs and spread with the beat of their hearts.

My heart pumped blood—dull and slow.

It all felt wrong. It all felt pointless.

The world was a dull, bleak grey. Eternal twilight—caught in the middle between day and night. I was stuck.

We ate and sat around the fire to share warmth and stories—for what is a gathering of Highlanders, but a sharing of strong whiskey and old anecdotes? Then there should be bagpipes and violins and dancing and eating—but short of all that, because the command had ordered quietness in the camp, we had only our characters and our Scot blood.

Well, and Jasper's Welsh blood. But really, he did play the Scot part rather well—he could, indeed, grunt.

A couple of hours later, as Jasper and I—once again—argued that smoking was bad and he should not do it, because I would tell Alice he did and she would punish him, a boy came running over and stopped, panting, in front of me.

"Lad?" I arched a brow.

"Carlisle Cameron says," he breathed, "be ready to move out at twilight. We will make a night attack on Nairn."

"What!?"

"In the night, they will not see us coming!" the lad said triumphantly.

"Neither will _we!_" I snapped at him. He looked taken aback, a thought he had not considered.

"Run along," Jasper said, dismissing the boy. He ran away, as though I had scared him.

I turned to the blond, getting to my feet. My blood boiled in my veins—anger consumed me. It burned in my throat and pulsed in my chest as though it were a living, breathing entity, separate from me. I felt it alien and at the same time welcomed it—it was a change from the unrelenting, dead-like indifference I had been feeling.

Ever since I left Bella that morning as she slept, I had felt everything superficially—no depth, as though my skin was hard rock, unbreakable, impenetrable.

Oh, but this—this I _felt_.

"This is madness!" I thundered.

"Lower your voice," he murmured, gripping my elbow and leading me away from the men and into the nearby woods. "Your dissent from higher orders will not help anyone. I prefer we keep it between us."

"No! Absolutely not! I refuse to lead my men to a pointless battle! I will not lead them to their deaths!"

Jasper's shoulders slumped slightly.

"Edward, please—"

"NO! Don't you _dare_ ask me to do this, Jasper! Don't you dare ask me to sacrifice their lives for a pointless _whim!_"

"The whim has always been the same—"

"This is _murder!_"

I crashed my closed fist against a tree's bark, skinning my knuckles. The pain was sharp and it awakened my muted senses. I welcomed it, like the burn of anger in my throat and the weight of hate in the pit of my stomach.

"They will kill us all, and for _what? For nothing!_"

I made to hit the tree again and suddenly Jasper's arms wrapped around my chest and pulled me back forcefully. He turned and threw me to the grass, where I landed in a heap of uncontrolled fury. I recovered immediately and threw myself at him, but Jasper was lithe and fast, and he dodged me, catching my arm and shoving me away.

He yelled at me in English, but my mind was clouded—I didn't understand it anymore. Jasper's Gaelic was strangely poor—a sign of high Welsh lineage, because the higher classes of Wales looked down upon Gaelic—and he struggled to reach me, but in the end failed.

I did understand his loud curse, right before he sank his knee in my stomach.

The air left my lungs in a painful rush, a rivulet of white steam in the frigid air.

I fell to my knees, coughing and gagging.

Jasper let himself fall at my side, panting.

"You are a brute," he scolded.

I gasped, "You fight dirty."

"You Highlanders make _everything_ about honor," he rolled his eyes.

I sat back, kneeling in the cold grass.

"What am I going to do?"

Jasper sighed, rubbing his hair furiously.

"Deserters will be shot," he quoted.

I turned my hand to look at my bloody knuckles, my anger dulled to a muted ache, the foam that had boiled under my skin quieted.

"I brought them here," I murmured.

The helplessness gripped me again and I sank back into the cold bottom of hopeless despair. I longed to reach for my indifference again, but it had faded away like smoke in the wind, leaving behind nothing but the vague memory of insensibility. I sought to find that painless void, but it eluded me. The ice was cracked—my skin wasn't cold stone anymore. I was flesh and bones again, blood pumping and spreading pain—both physical and emotional.

_Bella. _

I almost sobbed.

_She's gone—she's alone—and all for what? What brought me here, to this point?_

_Your pride_.

The word was suddenly meaningless.

Pride drove Charles Stuart. Pride drove Cumberland.

But it was lost to me—it became the abstract concept of an unknown feeling. Where was the pride of foolishly laying down your life for something you did not feel in your heart?

"Life brought us here," Jasper sighed. "For her own motives. Now we can only play with the cards it has dealt us."

"It is my fault."

"No. Nothing is your fault. You were trapped in the circumstances. You did what you could with what you had—and as far as it goes, you can feel proud of that, or satisfied. You did right by everyone, Edward."

"I made widows—I made orphans."

_Bella._

"You saved lives too."

"Only to throw them away in the end."

Jasper sighed, "Despair is a bad place to be and I do not envy you. But know that your sorrow is your cell, and you have put yourself there of your own volition. Not a man resents your decisions. Not one man doubts your logic or your command. Your men love you, Edward, as a hound-dog loves its master."

I sighed and rubbed my hands over my face. I realized I had smeared blood across my cheek and huffed in annoyance. The pain was but a vague throbbing in my hand and I easily ignored it. Other pains overrode it.

"Come now, I better bandage that before we leave."

The men looked at me oddly, concerned, as I made my way back to them. To reassure them I smiled and joked about the tree beating me up unfairly and Jasper not moving a finger to help me. Jokes about the unsuitability of the Welsh in general as bar-fight companions ensued. Jasper grunted repeatedly, earning Scot praises.

I struggled to find the calm, secure place in which I felt myself suitable to lead my men. Carefully, I took the splinters of myself and stuck them back together, reforming the puzzle I had lost that morning when I left and shattered like fragile glass.

By the end of the afternoon, at twilight, I had pieced myself together and I felt like myself. Edward Cullen was back—different, but still him.

Today, the Duke of Cumberland turned twenty-five years old. The Sassenachs were celebrating, and Murray had proposed to repeat the victory of Prestonpans by carrying out a night attack on the government encampment. We were to set off at dusk and march to Nairn. Murray would have the right wing of the first line of attack to Cumberland's rear, while Perth with the left wing would attack the front. Prince Charles would bring up the second line supporting Perth.

Dusk came.

Dusk passed.

The day became night. Stars came out, and the moon shone bright.

"You people can't keep a schedule," Jasper observed.

"We will never make it in time," I mumbled angrily. "We will be blind attacking the blind. What is more, we will be blind armed with swords attacking blind armed with _cannons_."

"On the good side, the English are arrogant, stupid blind."

"All but Cumberland—and who is directing the army? Oh yes. _Cumberland_."

"Maybe he is drunk."

"Maybe I was born in Ireland," I snapped, irritated.

Jasper wisely kept quiet.

We finally set off in the closed night. I kept calculating in my head but yet I came up with no way to cross twelve miles in the night with time enough to catch the Sassenachs unguarded and in the cover of darkness.

It just would not happen.

Which made this all the more hopeless—but I kept my irritation carefully concealed. We might be marching to our deaths, but no need to scream it to my men.

My regiment was accompanying Murray.

It was a mess. The dark made it impossible for anyone to follow any tracks, and confusion and disorder were constant companions.

I kept my men tightly close, all together, murmuring encouragements and rounding them up if they separated too much. Jasper and I had good eye sight and balance and we ran back and forth, keeping everyone together. I did not want to lose anyone.

The progress was unbelievably slow.

I counted the minutes, the miles, made parallelisms and still came out short.

I shook my head, "We will _not make it_," I hissed at Jasper.

"It is a little late to turn back now, _Ruadh_."

We reached Culraick one hour before dawn. The town was still two miles off the spot where we were supposed to cross River Nairn and encircle the town.

"I hate being right," I sighed.

"I hate the fact you feel the need to remind me all the time," jasper replied.

Murray and his officers argued heatedly. We sat on the ground and contemplated the meaning of Life. Jasper insisted it was love. Seaneen insisted it was whiskey. I was in a pleasant middle ground.

I randomly remembered images of Bella throughout our life together.

Finally, Murray decided there was no time to mount a surprise attack. I could only agree.

"That was rather anticlimactic," Jasper observed.

"Wonderful. Now we get to walk twelve miles pointlessly _twice_," Seaneen complained.

"Walking is healthy," I shrugged.

I was personally happy we had dodged the fight.

Sullivan was sent to find Prince Charles and tell him of the change of plans. Instead of making us retrace our steps, Murray decided to lead us down the road to Inverness back towards the camp. At least it would not be as monotonous as re-walking the already walked, and with light coming, and a better lined road, the walk should be easier.

At this point the whole thing was laughable. It was a stupid idea, and it had a sad, stupid ending. The men were tired and started to disperse in search of food along the way. I kept my men together still, weary of having them separate and lose one another. I did send some to gather food for us—at this point each regiment was on their own, quite frankly—but I sent them in pairs or groups of three, so no one would wander about on his own.

By the time we made it back to _Blàr Chùil Lodair_, I almost wished I was English. _Almost_.

It was morning and we were exhausted. I was shaking on my feet and I have extraordinary endurance.

"Let the world fall apart around me, I will just sleep right through it," I mumbled, letting myself fall to the grass.

"I agree," Jasper murmured, curling on his side at my right and promptly falling asleep.

I doubt I slept but a minute. When I woke up abruptly, I felt like I had just closed my eyes. Every muscle in my body was sore—even muscles I was not aware I had to begin with.

Someone was screaming and running around. I could not quite understand what he was yelling about—my mind was clouded with sleep and fatigue. Jasper stumbled to his feet at my side, blinking and cursing. I shook my head and caught the boy's arm, almost flinging him to a stop in front of me.

"What is it?"

"The English are coming!" he said, panicked. "We saw them! They are four miles away from us!"

He wiggled his arm and in my shock, I released him so he could keep shouting and alerting everyone else. My blood ran cold.

I turned to Jasper. His eyes were wide and his face livid.

"Go," I rasped, and swallowed. "Go! Run, wake everyone up! GO!"

He set off running like a soul chased by the devil, yelling 'Cumberland is coming, the English are coming' and making as much noise as he possibly could. I started shaking my men, waking them up and pulling them to their feet forcefully. They were not going to catch us asleep.

Murray finally woke up and started shouting we needed to form—so we did.

At about eleven in the morning, the armies were within sight of one another. Two miles of rough moorland stretched between us, and the English advanced steadily forwards. The weather got progressively worse as the minutes went by, and while rain and sleet had never bothered me before, my body was beginning to betray me. Also, the wind blew in our faces, working against us.

Mother Scotland had a funny way to show her support.

My sword was unusually heavy in my hands. My cape tangled, wet and heavy, in my legs. My hair got in my eyes.

But adrenaline burned through my veins. Anger bubbled right under the surface of the calm visage I had constructed for my men. My heart beat so loud and strong I thought it would beat right out of my chest. I had to force myself to breathe steadily and deeply so as to not get light-headed for lack of air.

Lochiel's Regiment was under Murray's direct command and on the far right of the line. I organized my men efficiently and kept them under tight control, keeping an eye out of outbreaks of panic or the very opposite, too much enthusiasm.

The high of battle is one not unlike that of sex.

Shocks of electric impulses run through your limbs like tiny tongues of fire licking quickly up your muscles. Your senses widened and your range of alertness opened to a nearly unbearable awareness in which you felt everything sharper than ever before. The breathing of the men around me was the background music to the prelude of hell.

Murray gave an order and suddenly our column shifted, changing positions. I sent Jasper to find out why were where moving differently than the rest, sliding down further into the moor and forming in three columns. My guess was Murray was attempting to shift the axis of our line, heading in a more Northern direction—but as I looked around, I realized the MacDonalds in the far right of the line, closest to us, were not moving at all.

Jasper reappeared at my side, "Murray realized the Leanach enclosure ahead of us would be an obstacle in the event of a charge and decided to move us down."

"Did he tell anyone? Why are the rest keeping still?"

He shook his head. He didn't know.

But now the line was skewed—the left wing McDonalds were still rooted against the damned Culloden wall, but the rest had moved along with us and created an uneven diagonal in the front line. If Murray intended to use the moor's natural slope to our advantage, he was not doing it correctly. There were not enough of us to cover the larger stretch of terrain and I started seeing gaps in the front line. I could not believe it—the army was just falling apart right in front of my eyes.

Prince Charles had ended up in the middle, and my guess was he was going to be the first to go down.

The second line at the back started moving to fill in the gaps and I realized Sullivan likely had absolutely no idea why Murray had moved ahead.

"Do we not have blasted couriers to pass along messages and orders!?" I snapped, incapable of holding back.

"Communication does seem to be an issue," Jasper mumbled.

"It seems to be _nonexistent_!" I raged.

I released a long stream of curses and sunk my sword into the ground ahead of me, too angry to contain the feeling below my skin. Everything was such an amateur thing! Mistakes a child would know to avoid in a battle in his backyard! What was Murray thinking!?

"Cumberland is moving his lines to rearrange," Jasper observed.

Two battalions had moved to our right, most likely anticipating some sort of retreat plan utilizing the Leanach enclosure behind us. We could take cover there from the artillery, but the low, old walls would offer little aid. Using it was pointless in any case—Cumberland's artillery was too powerful and even an idiot could hit a heap of rocks and Highlanders at this distance.

And just then, the artillery began to work. I kept my mean steady and standing. The charge would begin soon, and we would be in full-out battle in less than five minutes.

Any minute now.

Nothing happened.

No orders were issued.

"What the _hell_ are they waiting for? An _invitation!?_" Seannen asked.

I wondered, too.

Over half an hour passed and inexplicably, we were kept formed and arranged under the open fire, doing _nothing_.

"Are they hoping they will run out of ammunition?" Jasper asked, flabbergasted.

I did not answer.

Then the far left wing began to move—the Chattan Clan. The charge was beginning, so I called at my men to prepare, grasping my sword and keeping an eye out on the Chattans to see their advance.

"What are they _doing_?" Jasper whined.

The Chattans had veered right, in what I could only interpret as an attempt to avoid some kind of rough ground that would place them at a disadvantage, and had entered directly into the advance line of the other regiments, making an obstacle of themselves. The line began to advance as well as it possibly could—not well at all—and the charge began in an unorganized, disordered way.

Murray ordered his men forward so I charged, and just as we began to advance down the slope of the moor, the two battalions to our right came at our flank, which was only reasonable considering our positions but something Murray had failed to consider.

I was beginning to doubt his abilities to be truthful.

Everything became a blur around me. I focused all of my senses on my sword and in keeping myself alive. Every man is on his own in a charge, and I was not going to die here today.

In an odd balance between sharp and dulled senses, I moved like a viper but yet was strangely unaware of my surroundings. My limbs moved on their own accord. My sword fought for herself, leading my body behind her and seeking to destroy as much as possible in the least amount of time humanly achievable.

Warm blood splattered across my chest and face. I felt the reverberations of vibrations in my arms and torso as my sword hit flesh and cut through bone. The rain, wind and sleet in my face were no longer cold. The mud suctioned at my feet but I was stronger than it, stomping around and keeping a wide circle of open space around me by sheer intimidation. I occasionally saw a glimpse of Jasper's blond hair out the corner of my eye, keeping close and watching over me, moving like a snake with his twin blades.

I cut down a Dragoon and suddenly came face to face with a musket. I dropped to my knees and the bullet singed the top of my head, splitting my scalp. Blood flowed freely down my face, getting in my eyes. I got to my feet again and swung blindly around, and when I opened my eyes the Dragoon lay decapitated at my feet.

His pistols were still in his belt. I reached down and plucked them out, shooting at the first two English I saw. I then tossed them away, useless because I did not have the time to reload them, and picked up my broadsword again.

I have no inkling as to how long I was there at the heart of the battle, but eventually Jasper appeared at my side again and seized my arm.

"The army is in rout," he shouted over the thundering noise. "The battle is lost! Withdraw your men and run!"

I nodded, all too happy to acquiesce to his advice. I turned on my heels and started shouting to retreat, shoving any _Coille an t-Suidhe_ men who were not listening to my orders. Finally I got them all running up the slope towards the wall.

I ran as fast as I could, outpacing my men, and took the head of the retreat, keeping it as orderly as I possibly could and making sure we were not rushing into an ambush. Jasper took the rear, taking care no one was left behind or got disbanded. I would count the losses once we were safe, but for now we had to _run_.

We took to the forest to the right. I wanted to lead everyone back down towards the Inverness road; once we were there, hiding would be easy. But first we needed to be safe from the following forces in charge of pursuit.

I let the men get ahead of me and caught Jasper as he fled past me.

"Are they following us?"

"No," he panted.

I nodded and released him, but waited for a few minutes to make sure we were not being pursued. Finally satisfied we were safe, I caught up with my men and led them into the heart of the forest, where we could rest and hide out the day until darkness came. Once night fell like a blanket over Scotland, we would be able to worm our way inconspicuously into safer places.

Of the fifty-four men I had brought from _Coille an t-Suidhe_, twenty-three remained with me. I was unsure as to what had happened to the rest—perhaps they had fallen in Culloden, perhaps they had taken to running with another regiment and were now safe elsewhere. I had seen six fall in battle and was certain they were dead before they touched the ground.

Fifteen of the twenty-three alive were injured. Jasper had lost an eye—that explained the blood. He was dealing with it surprisingly well, and never complained. I took care of our wounded before checking myself. Besides the cut in my scalp, I had several more gashes along my skin that would leave nice scars, but nothing too deep or worrisome. I had been ridiculously lucky.

The next few days were on edge. We kept low in the day, moving carefully, but the greatest advances were made in the night under the moon's light.

We finally made it to Inverness, but the Dragoons were all over the city and we had to hide. Contrary to Murray's hope, the city's inhabitants were none too keen on the Jacobites and we had trouble finding people that would help us. Cumberland made it widely known that all and any person hiding or aiding a Jacobite would be treated as one and thus hanged or imprisoned.

The Sassenachs were in a rampage. Jasper knew friends in Inverness and we hid with them, keeping well underground.

Following the battle the Lowland units headed south, towards Corrybrough and made their way to Ruthven Barracks. The Highland units headed north, towards Inverness and on to Fort Augustus. The roughly 1,500 men that assembled at Ruthven Barracks received orders from Prince Charles saying that everything was lost and that we should all now fend for ourselves.

_Rich_.

By 18 April the Jacobite army was disbanded. Officers and men of the units in the French service made for Inverness, where they surrendered as prisoners of war on 19 April. The rest of the army broke up, with men heading for home or attempting to escape abroad.

I needed to get back to _Coille an t-Suidhe_, but not with the English on my back. I needed to make sure I could pass off as a regular farmer that had had nothing to do with Culloden battle. In order to appear like that I needed all my wounds to heal completely. My height, build and hair and eye color were not outstanding features per se, but all together I was a man that called attention to himself, and I could not afford that.

Writing letters was out of the question. They were all invariably intercepted and read.

So I was basically stuck in Inverness, with no means to get word to Bella that I was alive. I feared for her—she was a firm, strong-wiled woman that would put up a fight to the _Sassenachs_, and rapes had not been unheard of before Culloden and afterwards, they were becoming a common occurrence.

She was entering the second month of her pregnancy and she was a delicate girl. They would not realize she was with child and if even they did—what were the chances that would _stop_ them?

I paced like an angry lion in a cage. Jasper had developed a fever because of his eye and in his deliriums, he called for Alice several times at night, startling me awake. I did what I could for him, trying to keep him comfortable. His temperature fluctuated wildly, oscillating between so cold I wrapped blankets around him to hot enough he had trouble breathing.

The medic was weary of his chances of surviving and insisted it was delayed shock from his wound. But I doubted it; he had run by my side all the way to Inverness, and never showed any sign of fatigue. I knew him well—I would have noticed.

Days turned into weeks.

Jasper's fever broke and he began his slow trek towards recovery. I felt like a caged bird in the house, suffocated by the enclosed spaces and locked doors and windows.

I missed Bella so much I couldn't function properly. I told myself every day I failed to return to her was another day she thought I was dead, and I hated myself for causing her pain.

Towards the middle of June, Jasper was fully recovered and I was losing my mind.

"I guess you are not designed to be indoors," he said, his voice raspy and rough.

"I need to go to _Coille an t-Suidhe_ and find Bella. I have to talk to her, Jasper—I have to be with her. I am losing my mind here. If I wait any longer I—"

"I understand," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Let us head home, then."

We set off that same night, dressed in breeches and shirts and having left our tartans behind, because now they were forbidden. I had left my broadsword in the clearing in the forest the day of the battle, knowing if we were found, being armed would only work against us.

Inverness was about two days walk from _Coille an t-Suidhe_. We took it slowly, calmly, trying to keep from calling attention and just not bother the English. We got stopped by a patrol once, but managed to get out of it without being killed or dragged off to prison on account of Jasper's Welsh accent and both of our charismatic personalities.

We made it home three days after leaving Inverness.

_Coille an t-Suidhe__._

My home.

The farm I had been born in, the place I had grown up in, where I had married Bella and lived with her, where our child had been conceived. My inheritance—my past, my ancestral land.

Burnt to ashes and salted.

"Why?" Jasper asked shakily.

"She thinks I am dead," I murmured, crouching down to take a handful of ruined dirt and bring it to my face to smell it. "And she would not allow this land to be taken and used by my murderers."

"She did this to keep it from the English?" he repeated, shaken to the core. "But—such a loss, such a horrible loss—"

"Yes," My voice broke and I had to clear my throat.

But I knew why she had done it. She had said she would do it before, when the Jacobite rising began, and I had thought she exaggerated. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had known she was capable of it, but I had suppressed that thought. I should have known, though.

I was torn. In a sense I resented it. This was my land, my history, my ancestors' legacy. I was hurt that it was lost. But on the other hand—I was _proud_ of her. She was this fierce, strong, independent woman who would bend to no one's will and would always do what she thought was right. And I loved her for it.

And this was my fault. I should have returned earlier. I should have _never left_.

At the end of the day, the loss of _Coille an t-Suidhe_ was just another loss adding up to Scotland's slow but sure death. It was painful and it was horrible, but it meant the English would not have it, and that meant _something_.

The past is the past.

I rose and shook my hands free of dirt, sighing.

"Where is she now, then?" Jasper asked, pulling his cape closed around him.

"Sailing to France," I answered. "If not there already. Her aunt owns a tavern on the Riviera, and she offered to give us a room whenever we so desired. When the Rising began, we agreed if we ever got separated we would meet there."

"So, France it is."

I nodded.

"But before, let us head home. Alice will have my skin unless I get my arse there as soon as humanly possible and I have already wasted enough time. Come with me. Stay with us for a night before you head out. Who knows when you will return?"

I nodded, agreeing.

"There is somewhere I have to go before. Would you mind waiting?"

Jasper agreed to wait by the gate, and I made my way up and past the ruins of the house and down the undulations of the hills to where the ground dropped into the meadow, flanked on one side by the rock wall and bound on the other by the twinkling creek.

The grass had died out in the blazing heat of the fires that consumed the crops. The rock was marred by black streaks of soot. But the creek still twinkled, happy and healthy, fast and clear.

Not everything had to change.

I closed my eyes and remembered the first time we had stumbled into this small meadow together, the day her father and mother had come to visit my parents, their old friends. We had stayed here for hours, speaking about everything and nothing, the time slipping away from us unnoticed. Night had fallen and by the time they left the following morning, I knew she was the woman of my life.

I left the meadow and met Jasper at the gate. We walked back to the McLachlans' place, and I politely stayed back while Alice and Jasper found each other again. Their hugs, kisses and soft murmurs of reassurance and love pained me—Bella's absence was a physical ache in my chest.

"Oh, Edward!" Alice said once she was sure Jasper was alive and in one piece despite the eye. "Thank you, thank you for bringing him back to me!"

"I hardly—"

"_Nonsense!_" and she flung herself at me so that I had no option but to catch her and hug her, her frame impressively small against my chest.

"You will stay with us tonight!" she decided, nodding firmly.

I left early the next morning. Jasper insisted to accompany me half the way, but in between Alice and me he was quickly dissuaded. The McLachlans were kind enough to provide me with a horse so I would not have to walk all the way to Edinburgh.

I arrived at the city two weeks later. The trip had not been uneventful, and I had been forced to hide out from English patrols more often than I was comfortable with, but I made it in one piece. I sold the horse and secured myself a ticket to Paris in the ship departing the next week. I hated having to wait, but it would have to do.

Bella had visited our friend in Edinburgh before taking the ship herself. He said she looked well—except she dressed as a boy, and had cut off all her hair to conceal her gender.

I mourned her hair to a ridiculous level really.

_Mo duinne_, my beautiful brunette.

But in the end, she was still my Bella. Nothing would matter once she was in my arms again. I longed for the sound of her voice, the steady rising and falling of her chest beneath my ear, the way she would comb my hair back and make braids even though she knew I hated it, just to annoy me. I missed everything about her.

I missed the gentle curve of her growing belly. I wondered how much it had grown since I last saw her. I wondered if she felt it kick from time to time.

I kept hidden in my friend's house until the ship was ready to depart. When the wind finally swelled our sails and pushed us away towards France, I was incapable of looking back at what I was leaving behind. At least the wind seemed to blow in the right direction this time.

We arrived at Paris that afternoon and I skimmed through the city as though it were an insignificant blur. I knew where to take a coach for the Riviera and immediately headed there, not willing to waste any more time. I could almost feel her pull here, calling me to her.

It would take another week to get there. I felt trapped in my own body, caged and limited by circumstances.

I _hated_ it.

But I could feel her—closer. Every day, _closer_.

I began to feel impatient. Anxious.

What if something had gone wrong?

What if there had been a complication with the pregnancy? What if she had met some kind of trouble in the road, or on the streets of Paris—they were unsafe and dangerous, and—

By the time I made it to the tavern I was beside myself with anxiety. So many possible scenarios had played across my mind that I could only fear the worst.

The girl at the desk was not Bella's aunt Renee. She also barely spoke English and my French was deficient at best. And with my nerves, I could hardly think, let alone _translate_.

I finally got my point across, though.

"Bella Cullen?" she asked. She blinked. "Gone! Left. Yesterday."

My blood ran cold.

"What do you mean, gone? _Gone? Where?_"

She shrugged, shaking her head.

She did not know.

_Gone?_

But—no. How? _Why?_ Where would she _go?_

I got out of the tavern in a daze and stood in front of it, trying to understand.

_Gone?_

No… gone _where?_ Italy? I knew she still had family there from her mother's side, but… why go to Italy? We had agreed on this tavern for years… this was where we would meet. This place right here. Where else would she go so that I could find her?

Did she—did she really think I was dead? Was she so sure she had lost me that all our years' worth of traditions and oaths meant nothing anymore…?

A carriage stopped in front of the tavern, unloading more people searching for shelter in the falling darkness.

Panic began creeping into me and tightening like iron bands around my heart. What could have _happened?_

I absently looked at the carriage, my mind scrambling to understand. A gentleman had descended and was now helping a woman down, grasping her hand and arm carefully. Her hair was dark and very, very short—

"Really, there is no need," she said gently, smiling wearily.

I stared at her.

She was so _beautiful._

Her eyes landed on me and lingered, widening.

"Edward?"

Relief flooded me like cold water falling on a burning man. My knees gave way and I crashed to the grass, breathing hard. I had come so close, _so close_ to losing her—

She fell to her knees in front of me and her arms were suddenly around me. I breathed in the scent of her skin and she filled my senses, overwhelming me. She murmured my name over and over, running her hands through my hair. I raised my head from her shoulder and looked into her eyes, fighting to breathe through wracking sobs—mine and hers. I crushed her to my chest, kissing her lips and her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, forehead, anything I could reach.

"_Tha mi duilich_," I sobbed, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! I love you—_so much._" My voice broke again and she brought her hands to the sides of my face and soothed me, wiping away my tears. "I was such a fool, such a bloody fool for leaving."

"It doesn't matter anymore. You are here now. You came back. It doesn't matter. I love you. You are safe here with me."

I hid my face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, shaking and letting the words just leave my chest. I told her about leaving that morning and how it had hurt, how I had just stared at her for hours while she slept and how dead inside I had felt when I finally managed to drag myself out of the house. I told her about the days in Inverness and finally leaving the city and the almost night raid and the battle and how everything had gone wrong, _everything_.

When I was finally finished, and I had nothing else to say, I just slumped in her embrace, shivering and crying silently. She ran her hands gently down my back and through my hair, soothing and calm, anchoring me to my sanity and to the world. She was my lifeline, she meant everything to me.

I do not know how long we knelt there in the grass as I cried my heart out and she listened and held me, but eventually she shifted under me, kissing my temple.

"We should go inside," she said softly.

I became aware that night had fallen and closed tightly around us. The light of the candlesticks inside the tavern illuminated the grass with a golden, dim glow. I stood and pulled Bella up to her feet. She led me up to her room and lit the candles.

"Stay still," she murmured, unclasping my cape. "I want to look at you. Were you wounded?"

"Just small cuts," I said, swaying on my feet. I had not realized how utterly exhausted I was. Spent. Drained.

She tugged open the neck of my shirt and helped me take it off, and I leaned forward to press my forehead to hers. She kissed my lips softly and straightened me, brushing her fingertips feather-like over the new cuts. Her touches were like heaven after all the time we had spent apart, and I _was_ aroused, but my body was giving up.

"Oh, _a chara_, you are so tired," she said, stroking my cheek. "You need to sleep."

"I am sorry," I murmured as she pushed me back and I fell on the bed, leaning forward.

"Stop apologizing, _a chara_. I love you. We are together. That is all that matters."

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to keep awake. She slipped off my boots and undressed quickly, tugging at my wrist so I would get into the bed.

"I want to see you," I whined, stretching on my side as she covered us with the blankets.

"Tomorrow, my love. We have time. We have forever."

I pulled her to me, tangling our legs and wrapping my arms around her. We were as close as we could be in this position and for the first time I felt against my stomach the roundness of her belly—it was bigger than the last time I touched her, and I wanted to look at her, touch her… but my hands were clumsy as I stroked her cheek with the back of my fingers, and she blew out the candle and kissed my lips and I was asleep.

"_Ádhraím thú._" I heard her murmur before I sank into oblivion.

I am unsure as to how long I slept, but I awoke to a sound I could not quite recognize in my hazy sleepy state.

It took me a moment to realize it was the sound of retching.

"Bella?" I asked, suddenly alarmed, leaping from the bed. She was bent over a basin on the table, gasping. I touched her back and her arm, unable to do much but worry out of my mind.

"Morning sickness," she sighed. "It's normal."

I realized it was well into the morning. The room was flooded in bright sunlight that streamed in through the open curtains and spilled across the hardwood of the floorboards. I had not looked around last night and now I did; the room was medium sized, organized and clean.

She finally rinsed her mouth and ran her hands over her hair.

"It's so short," I murmured, smoothing my hand over it.

"It will grow," she shrugged.

"Come here," I asked, and walked back to the bed and sat down, pulling her between my spread knees.

I reached up to the string holding her shift and undid it gently, parting the delicate fabric to let it slip off her shoulders and down her arms until it was free of her arms. I let it pool at her feet and sat back to truly _look_ at her.

Her belly was indeed rounded now, though not too much—only a little. She was three months pregnant now. Her breasts had gotten a tiny bit bigger, and I took them in my hands, weighing them. They were slightly heavier and rounder. Her nipples hardened against my palms and I smiled up at her, kissing above her heart, on the gentle swelling of her left breast. I ghosted my hands down to the curve of her stomach, and kissed between her breasts before pressing my ear against it.

"Has she kicked?" I asked, feeling overwhelmed.

"No, not yet," she said softly, running her fingers through my hair. Her fingers hesitated and she pulled at it, and then laughed. "A _twig!_ Some things really never change. And it might be a boy, too."

"No," I said with certainty. "It will be a girl."

She smiled down at me, tugging at a strand of my bronze hair playfully.

My hand traveled up from her stomach between her breasts to her throat. I cupped it, slipping it to the back of her neck and brought her down to kiss her. I kissed her softly, gently and slowly—but it escalated against my will. Soon I was desperate, breathing her in and pulling her to me, hugging her as close as I dared. I did not want to hurt her—I did not want to be rough with her.

The untied breeches did little to conceal my state, though, and I had not touched her in over two months.

"Wait, my love," I stopped, blinking and trying to think. "_Can_ you—"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I can." She mumbled impatiently against my lips, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. I trailed my hand over her stomach down to the apex of her legs and cupped her carefully, uncertain. But she was ready. And I was more than ready.

"Be careful," I whispered, "Don't hurt yourself."

She kissed me again and I squirmed, working the breeches down my legs quickly. We were both breathing heavily. I could feel the thunder of her heart under the delicate skin of her chest, her breath ghosting over my lips and cheeks. With no little effort, I was finally nude. She straddled me carefully and I held her close, wary of her state and incapable of ever letting her go again.

When she finally moved down over me, we both shivered and moaned. She was tight, and she was _heaven_.

"_Ádhraím thú,_" I murmured, and she started rocking, setting a steady rhythm of undulating hips and gentle movements, driving me insane. She licked my jaw and caught my earlobe between her lips and made me moan. I touched her breasts, getting used to the small differences in her body, watching her move in the cascade of golden light of the sunbeams, loving the shards of fiery red in the short strands of her beautiful brown hair and the splinters of molten gold in the depth of her velvety chocolate eyes.

As I came closer to my climax I wrapped my arms around her, keeping her as close as possible. Her hands tangled in my hair and I could feel her muscles contract around me, and I grunted. I knew her so well, I could tell what she needed just as well I knew what I needed. I wanted to prolong this forever—stay like this, connected, to the end of our lives.

And as I thought that I realized we _were_.

We loved each other. We were each other's lives. There was a life between us now—a life that would grow and be a piece of both of us, our promise to the world, our legacy. Our child.

We were together. We were connected. We were _one_.

I grunted against her neck, panting and murmuring "I love you' and '_Mo ghrá'_ and '_mo duinne'_, and just breathing her in and moving with her and inside her and against her—

Her climax was surprising and violent in its intensity. She buried her fingers in my hair and her face in the crook of my neck, moaning long and loud and dragging me over the wave with her so that we crashed together, shuddering like one and finally collapsing in a heap on the bed, on our sides.

I gathered her to me and got us back inside the covers, sighing and spooning against her back, splaying my fingers over her stomach.

"_Mo ghrá, mo beatha_," I murmured against her ear, kissing the skin below it.

My love, my life.

We had forever ahead of us.


End file.
